by Ian Rankin
Blake gave a thin smile. ‘Can’t blame a guy for trying. Laura called me late last night from Edinburgh. She was asking who gave me the story.’
‘Was my name mentioned?’
‘I protect my sources, Mr Rebus.’
‘I’m sure she knows anyway. It’s a small tank we’re all swimming in.’ Rebus looked around. ‘No sign of your fellow journalist, the one you were in the pub with?’
‘She’s at Strathy Castle, I think. I’m headed there soon.’
‘Don’t expect the occupants to be overly chatty–and watch out for the gardener.’
‘Oh?’
‘Criminal record and a temper.’ Rebus put a finger to his lips as he started to unlock the rental car.
‘Going somewhere nice?’
‘You planning on tailing me?’
‘No.’
He gave the young man a hard stare. ‘Good.’
He made for the coast road, heading in the direction of Tongue. He looked to his left as he passed the backpacker café. A couple of bicycles and an old-fashioned camper van were parked out front. Ron Travis would be busy inside, catering for his guests. The Portakabin was still in place at Camp 1033, along with fluttering lengths of crime-scene tape and the same bored-looking uniform as before. Rebus sounded his horn and, having attracted the officer’s attention, stuck two fingers up as he passed. Checking in the rear-view mirror, he saw him dig a notebook out of his high-vis jacket. Doubtless he’d be noting the car’s details.
‘Good luck,’ Rebus muttered with a half-smile.
He took the cratered track to the steading, parking in the same spot as before. The logs had been dealt with and were neatly stacked, their top layer covered with a tarpaulin, next to which sat the motorbike. When the door to the farmhouse opened, Mick Sanderson stepped out. His eyes were on the rental car as he approached Rebus.
‘Your repair got me as far as a garage in Inverness,’ Rebus explained. He gestured towards the bike. ‘Another of your projects?’
‘It works well enough.’
‘And it belongs to you?’
‘Anyone who needs it can use it. You ever ridden one?’ Sanderson straddled the seat and gripped the handlebars.
‘Been out on it recently?’
‘The day I fixed your car.’
‘And before that?’
‘No idea.’
‘Who else uses it? Jess? Maybe Angharad Oates even?’
Sanderson’s smile was icy. ‘What’s your interest?’
Rebus offered a shrug, his hands sliding into his pockets. ‘Seen much of Samantha the past day or so?’
‘She’s been around.’
‘You know she was sent a threatening note?’
Sanderson’s face softened a little. He dismounted from the bike. ‘News to me.’ Rebus’s attention had shifted to the barn. Music was wafting from it. ‘Yoga class,’ Sanderson explained. ‘Want a cuppa?’
‘If you’re offering.’
Sanderson studied him. ‘I don’t think you’re our friend–unlikely it’ll ever happen–but you’re a friend’s father and that gets you a mug of tea.’ He paused. ‘But no more of your questions, okay?’
‘Fair enough, son. Lead the way.’
They walked the short distance to the farmhouse door, Sanderson pushing it open and allowing Rebus to precede him inside. The kettle was on the wood-burning stove, wisps of steam escaping its spout. Oates was seated at the dining table as before, the child on her lap. She was helping him draw a castle with coloured crayons.
‘Your old place?’ Rebus made show of guessing. ‘You must miss it.’
‘What’s he doing here?’ Oates demanded of Sanderson.
‘Tea, and then he’s going.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question.’ Her eyes were drilling into Rebus. Rebus nodded towards the child.
‘Didn’t catch his name last time I was here.’
She thought about not answering, but then relented. ‘Bram–short for Abraham.’
‘As in Bram Stoker? Vampires and all that?’
‘Jess liked the name.’
‘And he usually gets his way, eh? Like an old-fashioned lord and master. Are you stuck here all the time, or do you make the occasional getaway?’
‘Mr Rebus is very interested in our Kawasaki,’ Sanderson explained.
‘It’s a hefty machine,’ Rebus said. ‘Just wondering if you’ve managed to master it?’
‘This is the twenty-first century, if you hadn’t noticed.’
‘So you do take it out sometimes?’
‘We all do.’
‘Those of you who’ve got a licence…’
‘We’re very law-abiding up here, Mr Rebus,’ Sanderson said, handing him a mug. ‘Milk’s in the jug, sugar in the bowl.’
Rebus placed the mug on the table and added a splash of milk. A second mug had been set in front of Oates, who accepted it without any show of thanks. Rebus took a slurp, peering over the rim of the mug to the plastic box of crayons.
‘Got any felt pens in there?’ he asked, shifting his focus to Oates. ‘Nice thick black ones?’
She leapt to her feet, hoisting a shocked Bram to her shoulder. ‘Get out!’ she barked.
‘You’re upsetting the wee one,’ Rebus chided her.
‘And you’re upsetting all of us! Now get the hell out.’
Rebus placed the mug back on the table. ‘Milk’s on the turn,’ he said. He was halfway to the door when he paused. ‘Seen anything of your ex-husband lately? People are getting a bit worried.’
Oates half turned her head towards Sanderson. ‘I swear to God, Mick, if you don’t kick him out, I will!’
Rebus held up both hands in a show of appeasement. ‘A peaceful, welcoming place–you really are all living the dream here.’ He closed the door after him and made for his car.
A few minutes later, as he passed the camp again, he prepared to sound his horn, but there was no sign of the uniform. He wasn’t much further on when his phone rang. It was Samantha, so he pulled into the backpackers’ parking area and answered.
‘It’s me,’ his daughter began.
‘I know–how are you doing?’
‘Press are all over this note I got. They wanted to photograph it but I couldn’t find it. I gave it to you, didn’t I?’
‘And I handed it to Creasey. Good news is, the publicity might stop whoever did it sending any more.’
‘It was you that alerted the media, wasn’t it?’
‘Time we got them on your side, Samantha. This isn’t much, but it’s a start.’
‘I’m not sure whether to thank you or not.’ He heard her sigh. ‘Are you still sleeping at the pub? Sofa’s available here…’
‘I appreciate that, but a bed suits me better and the wee bit of distance might be good for us. How’s Carrie doing?’
‘Devastated. She’s going to get counselling, though it might mean trips to Thurso. They can’t release the body yet, so no point planning anything.’ Her voice began to crack. ‘If they arrest me, you’ll need to make the funeral arrangements.’
‘Not going to happen, trust me.’
‘It’s hard to trust anyone right now.’ She gave a long exhalation and seemed to pick herself up a little. Rebus saw that Ron Travis had come to the door. He lowered the driver’s-side window and gave a wave. Recognising him, Travis waved back then cupped the same hand to his mouth in imitation of taking a drink. Rebus shook the offer away and turned his attention back to the conversation, making Samantha repeat what she’d just been telling him.
‘Creasey delivered it all in a bag this morning–not the clothes, I suppose they’re evidence, but stuff from Keith’s pockets. Money and credit cards. His phone’s still missing, but attached to his house keys there’s a memory stick. I’d forgotten he had it.’
‘What’s on it?’ Rebus asked quietly.
‘I’ve not looked. Can’t be important, though, or Creasey would have hung onto it.’
‘True.’ Rebus was watching Travis
disappear back indoors. ‘Will you still be at home in ten minutes or so?’
‘I’m meeting Julie for a coffee. She’s picking me up so I don’t have to brave whatever’s waiting for me in the village.’
‘I’m on my way,’ Rebus said, working the steering wheel with one hand.
27
Samantha and Julie were already in the car when Rebus arrived. Julie waved and smiled while Samantha got out, hugging him briefly before pressing the small plastic device into his hand.
‘Sorry about yesterday,’ she said.
‘Me too.’ He watched as she ducked back into the car, no hanging around. He hoped it was because of the chill wind and the sudden needles of rain. He got back into his rental and followed the two women into Naver. The TV camera crew had just packed up, and as they manoeuvred out of their space, Rebus grabbed it. The rental car was smaller than his Saab, easier to handle. He entered The Glen. May was serving coffees and teas to a table of regulars.
‘Will I be seeing you on the news tonight?’ he asked her.
‘Cheeky beggars wanted to film in here but I told them where to go.’
Rebus was waiting for her at the bar when she brought the empty tray back. He held up the memory stick. ‘Can I use your computer again?’
‘If you promise not to plant a virus.’
He promised, heading behind the bar and through the doorway into the cramped office. There was a backlog of paperwork on the large desk. On one wall was a framed photo of a younger May embracing her father outside the pub. Rebus peered at the password taped to the bottom edge of the computer screen. The hard drive was beneath the desk, and it took him some effort to lean down far enough to slot home the memory stick. Once done, he settled himself on the swivel chair. May’s face appeared in the doorway.
‘Get you a drink?’
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Not hungry?’
‘Not yet.’ She was looking at the screen, not quite managing to disguise her curiosity. ‘Whatever’s on here, you’ll be the first to know,’ Rebus assured her.
‘I’ll leave you to it then.’ She began humming a tune as she returned to the bar. Rebus settled down to work.
A few dozen files. Most of them seemed to be individual photographs. He clicked through all of them. The camp, the dig, the history group. Then a few of Joe Collins, followed by Helen Carter, Stefan Novack and a man Rebus guessed must be Jimmy Hess’s grandad Frank. All four looked to be seated in armchairs in different living rooms. Keith had interviewed them in their own homes.
All that remained were the four audio files. Rebus managed to turn the volume up. Even so he had to angle his ear towards the small speaker on the front of the console. First up was Novack. The recording lasted just under fifty minutes. Rebus had mixed feelings as he listened to Keith’s voice; he wished again that he’d known him better in life, taken the trouble to get to know him. On the few occasions when he had phoned the house and Keith had answered, all he’d done was ask to speak to Samantha–no how are you? How’s work? How’s life treating you?
Keith was a good interviewer. He started with general chat, getting Novack used to talking. And when the questions began, they were increasingly forensic until they concentrated on the suspected poisoning and the murder of Sergeant Davies. Novack, however, had little to say on either subject. It wasn’t that he sounded evasive; it was simply that he didn’t know much.
‘Please remember, I had been released from the camp by then.’
‘But you kept in touch with the friends you’d made–sent them letters. I’m guessing they wrote back with news and gossip. And then later when you returned and started your new life…’
‘I would tell you if I could, Keith, believe me.’
The same was true of the revolver displayed in The Glen–Novack had no reason to doubt Joe Collins’ story of how he’d found it.
‘I think you have more details already than I do,’ he told Keith at one point.
Slowly the questioning petered out and they were back to general chat.
Helen Carter was next, Keith managing only twenty or so minutes with her before she drifted off to sleep. He must have known he was against the clock, because the questioning was brisker, the preliminaries curtailed–and he kept his voice raised to combat her hearing issues. He was interested in her job at the camp dispensary, her relationship with (and eventual marriage to) an internee called Friedrich. But quickly he zeroed in on her sister Chrissy and Sergeant Gareth Davies.
‘It shocked her to her core,’ Helen Carter said, voice croaky. ‘Took her years to recover. Poets write about the madness of love–but to kill a man? Nothing romantic about that, let me tell you.’
Had Chrissy been seeing Davies’s killer behind his back?
‘Hoffman? She hardly knew him–maybe smiled at him once or twice in passing. Pleasantries, you know. Thinking was, he admired her from afar but never plucked up the courage to do anything about it.’
Keith: ‘Except execute Sergeant Davies.’
‘Horrible thing to happen. We had military police crawling all over the place. But it was a day or two before they found Gareth’s revolver hidden beneath Hoffman’s mattress. He had a room of his own–didn’t share with the others. Perk of being put in charge of one bit of the camp. Wasn’t liked, though, not too many tears shed when the firing squad did their duty.’
‘What about the revolver in The Glen? It couldn’t be the one used to kill Sergeant Davies?’
‘You keep asking us about that. All I can tell you is that it turned up some time after the camp had closed, and Joe’s story is he found it washed ashore.’
‘Why put it on display?’
‘A talking point, isn’t it? No more to it than that. Your tea’s getting cold, Keith, and I’m getting tired. I know you mean well, but the past is the past is the past…’
The next file was Joe Collins himself. Keith had hardly got started before Collins cut him off.
‘It’s all about this murder, isn’t it? The murder and the poisoning–those are your interest rather than the camp itself?’
‘I’m not sure I’d agree completely with—’
‘Ach, it’s the truth and you know it. The murder weapon was found hidden in Hoffman’s quarters.’
‘Yet he protested his innocence to the end, according to the records.’
‘Which did not delay his appointment with the firing squad.’
‘They executed him in the camp, didn’t they?’
‘At dawn. We were to remain in our bunks, the doors locked. We were all awake, though; I doubt many of us had got much sleep. He made noises as he was led out.’
‘Noises?’
‘Begging for mercy, I think. Then the gunshots and the terrible silence. He was buried somewhere outside the camp. I don’t think there was ever a marker of any kind. The digging you are doing will not bring his bones to light.’
‘That’s not why we’re excavating.’
‘The money you want to spend on the camp, would it not be of more use to the community in other ways?’
Instead of answering, Keith had another question ready. ‘The revolver you say you found—’
‘The revolver I did find. This obsession will do you no good, Keith. You think I had something to do with the crime? Sergeant Davies’s revolver was taken away by the authorities as evidence. What happened to it afterwards no one knows.’
‘Tossed into the sea, perhaps?’
‘What does it matter if it was?’
‘From the accounts, there were no witnesses. Davies was ambushed somewhere between the village and the camp. His weapon was wrestled from him and he was shot in the head.’
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t understand why Hoffman would hang onto the weapon.’
‘Perhaps he planned to use it again.’
‘It doesn’t seem to have been very well hidden. He could have left it anywhere, but he took it to his room.’
‘And this is what troubles
you?’
‘He also doesn’t seem to have courted Chrissy Carter. The two hardly knew one another.’
‘Whatever the story, all I can tell you is that someone threw that particular revolver away–probably at the end of the war–and it was covered over by time and tide. But both of those have a way of bringing things back again, wanted and unwanted.’
‘And you put it on display because…?’
‘Not as a trophy, if that’s what you think. Am I the one who shot Gareth Davies? I answer that in the negative with all the force I can muster.’ Collins paused. ‘I cannot understand why you would spend your evenings and weekends following this hobby when you have Samantha and Carrie waiting for you at home.’
‘They’re very patient.’
‘You think so? Well, I pray you are right.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Nothing, nothing–I’m just an old man who rambles sometimes…’
As the recording ended, Rebus stood up, stretching his limbs and his spine. He wandered through to the bar, caught sight of Lawrie Blake speaking to what he assumed were other journalists, and retreated to the kitchen. There was a note on the table–Soup in pot–so he reheated the broth and sat down to eat it, feeling suddenly ravenous. He cut himself a wedge of bread to go with it and poured a glass of water from the tap.
‘A proper prisoner’s meal, that,’ May Collins said, walking into the kitchen as he was finishing.
‘Didn’t fancy the bar for some reason.’
She nodded her understanding. ‘They’re away again, though–I don’t think we’re feeding them enough titbits. How’s it going?’
‘I’ve just been listening to Keith talking with your father.’
‘I heard from the hallway. You seemed engrossed.’
‘I’m wondering how he felt about Samantha and Hawkins–he must have wondered how many people had known or suspected and hadn’t told him.’
Standing behind him, May gave his shoulder a brief squeeze. ‘Have you heard from Samantha?’
‘She’s with her pal Julie.’
‘Actually she’s with the police–or she was. They turned up at Julie’s door and took her away. That’s what I’m hearing.’
Rebus dug out his phone. No signal.
